


Where dwell the Ghouls—

by WildnessBecomesYou



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, holy water and hellfire, this started as a study after an idea and ended up being a lot more whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Crowley has nightmares; Aziraphale rarely sleeps.A study on an angel comforting a demon through nightmares.





	Where dwell the Ghouls—

**Author's Note:**

> u ever write a fic bc u have an idea and it becomes way more cathartic than it should be 
> 
> Title from Dream-Land by Edgar Allen Poe! 
> 
> (I move countries in three days I'm screaming)

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep much, and it’s a good thing, because Crowley does. 

Crowley also has nightmares. 

They’re horrid, torturous things; Crowley won’t tell him what they are, not in detail, but Aziraphale can _feel_ it. He can feel love, and he can feel when love is torn away. Conveniently, he supposes, this means he can usually tell when Crowley is starting a nightmare. He can also reason out when Crowley needs to be pulled from one. 

On some occasions Crowley wakes himself. 

He’ll sit up straight, gasping, clutching at sheets, his own chest, immediately reaching out for Aziraphale. The angel is (almost) always there, reaching back for him. 

Aziraphale can murmur sweet words once Crowley is awake. 

He knows Crowley dreams of specific things: fire, rejection, loss. He knows Crowley needs specific words to calm him down, even if the demon never returns to sleep that night. 

He’s not surprised when Crowley starts keeping one of those blasted lighters on his bedside table— the kind with the long arm, the first one you give a child when you’re teaching them to light candles or the fireplace. He’s not even surprised when Crowley wakes suddenly one night and has the lighter in hand and alight, screaming “Back! Get back, wank-wings!” 

His hand curls around Crowley’s wrist and the demon nearly melts, the fire going out and his shoulders slumping. “I’m here,” Aziraphale murmurs into the demon’s hair, nosing through the ringlets to get to Crowley’s (wet) cheek. “I’m here, no one else, we’re safe, I’m safe, my brave sweeting.” 

Crowley whimpers and melts into it.

Sometimes Crowley wakes silently. He’ll lay still, eyes open wide, taking deep breaths as if he’s surprised he can even do so. Aziraphale will reach over, palm to Crowley’s chest, and find his infernal heart going a mile a minute. “Alright?” he’ll ask. 

“No,” Crowley will say, and Aziraphale will wait patiently. “Had a bad dream.” 

Aziraphale will hum and scoot closer, letting Crowley know he’s allowed to do the same. Crowley will, until Aziraphale’s arms are fully around him, sighing shakily with eyes still wide open. 

He’s surprised when Crowley asks him to start keeping holy water on his own bedside table. 

“Crowley,” he says, voice cracking, and he can’t help the desperation that leaks in, even at this late hour. “If it’s that bad, we can get _help_ , darling, I don’t—“ 

“No, just in case— in case—“ Crowley swallows thickly, nightmare still poking at the edges of his psyche. His voice comes back in a whisper. “In case they come back and I don’t wake up.” 

“I won’t endanger you,” Aziraphale breathes. 

“It’s not for me,” Crowley hisses, and he’d sound angry if Aziraphale didn’t see the tears spilling over. 

“I don’t like when you lie to me.” It’s a desperate phrase, it barely makes it all the way out of Aziraphale’s mouth before his throat closes around it. 

Crowley pulls his knees to his chest and looks away. “Fine. It’s a little bit for me.” 

“ _Crowley_.”

“Aziraphale, what if I hurt you?” 

Aziraphale sighs, and reaches for Crowley. Crowley slaps him away, and Aziraphale reaches again, and Crowley is a windmill of limbs trying to escape before he gives in, sobbing and clinging. 

Aziraphale holds Crowley close, his own breaths shuddering as Crowley quakes and jerks against him. “I will get a water bazooka if it will make you feel _safer_ , but under no circumstances will I ever point it at you.” 

“A— an—“ he hiccups, swallows, makes an angry noise at the fact that he can’t speak properly. Aziraphale shushes him. Pushes his nose against Crowley’s forehead. Grips him tight enough that there will probably be bruises. 

Crowley grips right back. 

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he hisses eventually. 

“I rather think I do,” Aziraphale says softly. He gets an angry, broken noise in response. “Let’s move to the couch.” 

This is an age-old technique: move from the place your body has sweat out its fears, find cool leather to calm your fevered limbs, new environment to distract you from the pictures of terror. Aziraphale leaves his side for a moment to bring him warm milk. Crowley wrinkles his nose, then gulps it down greedily. 

“You added vanilla.”

“And rainbow sprinkles.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes, but a smile almost graces his face. Aziraphale settles down to read and finds Crowley’s head in his lap, tangles his fingers in the mussed ringlets. His wedding ring gets caught and he has to put the book down— he finds Crowley asleep again. 

He bends and presses a kiss to his demon’s temple. 

In the morning proper, sun up and birds twittering, Aziraphale sits before Crowley with tea. “I’ll get holy water,” he says hesitantly, and Crowley’s head jerks up from his coffee. “But only if you agree to go and see a psychologist.” 

Crowley grumbles for a moment. 

And then, “How much of our situation do I have to hide?” 

Aziraphale smiles. He’s done his research, and made sure to find the right therapist for Crowley. Perhaps he’ll schedule his own appointment some day. “None. He’s an eternal being— one of those good Irish folk. I guess occult, if you must.” He takes a sip of his tea. 

Crowley stares, then sighs, smile breaking out, fond. “Alright, when’s my appointment?” 

Crowley has nightmares. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep often. But they learn, and they work through it, and while the lighter and water gun help to ease the demon’s fears, they go unneeded.

**Author's Note:**

> if u ever have a nightmare i highly recommend warm milk (90 sec in the microwave should be enough) with a splash of vanilla and rainbow sprinkles stirred in


End file.
